Sightings by B.J. Hollars

ya?”
    Some what? Did second string kickers even have that?
    â€œCome on, Yancey, knock it off with the dillydallying.”
    Dillydallying?
    I crouched on all fours.
    â€œLike this, Coach?”
    â€œJesus, Yancey. Really?” he asked, throwing his hat to the grass. “Like this.”
    He demonstrated for me, clenching his fists and managing a slow rocking motion, his pelvis leading.
    â€œAll together now!”
    We clenched our fists, tensing our buttocks and pumping forward from our crotches.
    Housen nodded.
    â€œNow we’re getting it. Take it nice and slow. Sometimes you gotta go in for the tackle balls first. Lead with those hips, boys, lead with those hips. Don’t be afraid to use those butt muscles.”
    We slow-humped the chilly September air until there was nothing left to hump. Humped, grunting, thrusting, thoroughly exhausted as the rain trickled down the glossy slope of our helmets.
    After ten minutes or so of demonstrating defensive mobility, Hans Rochester, a back tackle, said, “Coach, I think we gotta go.” He pointed to a crowd of bewildered parents gathering by the fence.
    â€œOh really? Well I know one place ya gotta go. To the fifty and back!” He blew his whistle. “Move it! I wanna see those tight asses shake.”
    Daryl Harbeck (second string ball holder) breathed heavily beside me.
    â€œWe could always just . . . quit,” he gasped.
    â€œQuit,” I agreed. “Yes . . . we could do that.”
    But our dedication was simply too great.

    Nights after practice Mom and I sat down on the kitchen stools with a telephone book and began calling Vermont’s local authorities.
    Police stations, fire stations, the YMCA.
    â€œYes, hello. You haven’t happened to notice a stranger in town? Frederick Yancey. About 5’9”, sort of squat. He’s a painter, you see . . .”
    She was desperate for answers, so she made me desperate, too.
    Addison County hadn’t seen him, nor had Caladonia or Chittenden or Essex.
    We had some much-needed luck in Bennington, when a police officer recalled, “Well, there used to be some painter around here. What was his name?”
    His name was Norman Rockwell.
    Mom continually excused Dad for his actions, claiming that after fourteen years of forty-hour workweeks at the insurance firm, perhaps he deserved to momentarily cut all ties.
    â€œWe shouldn’t worry,” she assured. “I’m sure he’ll be back in no time. Most men buy a sports car, for crying out loud,” she laughed. “He’ll come back to us, right, sweetie?”
    One day, we just stopped calling Vermont all together. Still, Mom ordered phonebooks from neighboring states: New Hampshire, Delaware, and much of the New England region.
    But even after they arrived, we didn’t bother calling. We just stacked them on a shelf and used all the money we were saving on long-distance to order Kentucky Fried Chicken by the bucket.
    â€œThat crazy father of yours . . . he’s just so . . . crazy,” she smiled, licking her fingers. “Excuse me, Rexy.” She pushed past me and locked herself in the bathroom.
    I devoured a wing and then sat by the phone, in case Vermont called back.

    The school’s annual Father-Son breakfast snuck up on everyone, and one day after practice, as we peeled ourselves out of our pads and hit the showers, Coach Housen loomed in the doorway staring at his clipboard.
    After much towel slapping and six rounds of Goldbond powder fights, we dressed and left the locker room, our backpacks slung cockily over one shoulder. Coach Housen spotted me among the herd and shouted, “Yancey, office, pronto.”
    It wasn’t much of an office – just a glorified janitor’s closet with a desk and a lightbulb squeezed in beside the boiler. He’d cluttered it with things only slightly related to football. Back issues of
Sports Illustrated
piled haphazardly beside a